


Lancet

by Naraht



Category: Return to Night - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:15:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hilary staves off boredom through flame wars in the pages of medical journals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lancet

_1959_

"Julian, darling," called Hilary, hearing the sound of the post in the front hall, "has my _Lancet_ arrived?"

It was a day late and she had been impatient since - well, since the last issue. Quite.

There was a silence from the hall.

"Julian..." she began again.

He appeared in the doorway holding a stack of post, the latest copy of the _Lancet_ clearly discernible behind the usual medical circulars and solicitations. His face spoke eloquently of unhappiness and disappointment.

"It always upsets you, Hilary, since you started this..."

"I'll have it now," she said sharply.

Julian handed it over without further comment.

Hilary took the journal and opened it immediately to the correspondence section. She found the letter there just as she had expected.

_Sirs,_

_In response to Dr. Mansell's letter of the 5th instant, I feel it safe to say that he is under a complete misapprehension as to the nature of..._

She skimmed the rest of the letter, finding it full of the usual mix of equal parts facile reasoning, deliberate misquotation, pig-headed obtuseness and condescension. Perhaps with an extra measure of the latter. If it avoided descending into _ad hominem_ attacks it was only because the author, an honorary at the John Radcliffe, clearly thought it below his dignity.

No doubt she was flushing furiously - she could feel the heat of indignation rising in her face - but the advantage of a three-month-long war of letters in the pages of the _Lancet_ was that one did not have to pay any attention to the betrayals of one's complexion. Even being referred to, invariably, as "he" possessed its own consolations: she knew at least that her gender could have inspired none of the condescension which the letter contained.

It was only in lead type that she, still a country G.P, could still contend on a halfway equal basis with the luminaries of her field. It was for this reason that it exercised this curious fascination over her. If it were only in prose that she could cut, then prose it must be.

"Shall I put on the kettle?" asked Julian, still hovering. "We've a bit of the Fuller cake still."

Hilary shook her head. "Not yet. I'll just reply first."

 _Sirs,_ she typed, inaccurately, and with enough force that the keys of the typewriter - bought for the purpose a few years ago - stuck.

She swore, untangled them, wiped her hand on her handkerchief, and continued.

_Though Mr. Scot-Hallard makes a forceful argument, he would be well advised to refresh his memory as to the facts of the matter, which he appears to have lost sight of amidst his desire for point-scoring at the expense of..._

"You enjoy it, don't you." 

It was Julian, his inflection flat. She had thought he had gone.

Hilary looked out the window of Larch Hill at the green, placid fields of Gloucestershire. 

"Of course I do." Only it hardly sounded convincing; she tried again. "Of course I do. It's something to look forward to, at least."

Once upon a time, she remembered, it had been Julian who had said things like that.


End file.
